


Alone

by ister



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, I'm letting Napoleon suffer again, M/M, Pining, Someone stop me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8926375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/pseuds/ister
Summary: Christmas time is when Napoleon feels the loneliest.





	

They laugh. Napoleon feels sick. Gaby adds something and Illya starts snorting, before covering his mouth, cheeks reddening with embarrassment. It is the most adorable sound Napoleon has ever heard. 

He wants to hear it again and again, but he suspects Illya will never relax that much around him. A few moments later, he knows for sure, because his partner's expression sobers up. Gaby looks into his direction as well and frowns. 

Napoleon lets himself get distracted by the hollering laughter from their neighbouring table. UNCLE's Christmas party is in full swing. He sighs and finishes his glass of wine. Even though he is surrounded by a lot of people, he has never felt lonelier. 

Christmas time is always the worst for him. Everyone is gathering with their loved ones and he is reminded once again that another year has nearly passed. Another year of being alone, another year of wasting time, another year of simply existing. 

With a little bit of hesitation, he risks a glance at Gaby and Illya. She is whispering something into his ear, their expressions serious. Napoleon suppresses a heavy sigh and tries to not wallow in self-pity. It has been too long; he has forgotten how it feels like to be in love, sharing secrets, feeling invulnerable, knowing that someone cares.

Once again, his life feels like a play. Polite masks, forced smiles and calculated gestures, his bespoke suit a very thin armour, shielding him from exposing himself. An act that is harder and harder to maintain, but he has suffered through enough to know that he will succeed in the end. 

He will play the smooth ladies' man, because that's what is expected from him. Happiness is not meant for people like him. The ones to hide their true identities, to lie, to never reveal what is troubling them. The dishonest, as Illya would put it.

The urge for fresh air gets overwhelming and he is about to stand up, when someone stops him. "Boss, where are you going?" Soraya, his very own trainee, asks.

"Outside," he tells her. 

By now she knows he is in a bad mood and wants to be left alone. Working together in close quarters does that to fellow agents. "But Waverly's about to appoint the employee of the year," she protests. 

Napoleon nods, grabs his coat and heads outside nonetheless. The noises of his colleagues follow him and he has to catch his breath. Afterwards, he adjusts his scarf and starts wandering around aimlessly. 

Warm light shines through the windows, but it doesn't reach his face. As soon as he closes his eyes, he can imagine it melting the snowflakes in his hair and with them, the pain. It is a comforting little illusion and for a few more precious seconds he feels like Andersen's Little Match Girl. 

"Cowboy."

Reality pulls him away from his daydream. Reality in form of his colleague, standing under the street light, wearing nothing but a turtleneck despite the cold weather. 

Napoleon swallows down the urge to sob and hopes. The question why Illya ran after him comes up, the answers to it too frightening to even think about them. 

"What do you want?" he asks. 

"Waverly did not want to start the announcement without you," Illya tells him, "So I followed you outside." 

The little bit of hope Napoleon had – for Illya to reciprocate his feelings – shatters immediately. Of course he only went outside to collect him because Waverly told him to. 

"I don't feel like staying." He puts his hands in the pockets of his coat and wants to turn around.

"He insisted. You should come. Gaby-" – "Fine." He loves Gaby with all of his heart, but hearing her name out of Illya's mouth is something he cannot deal with right now. "Lead the way, Kuryakin." 

Illya winces and he knows he is being cruel, but he is too tired to care. He just wants to sleep. Hence he looks forward to spend the night alone, a glass of wine in reach. Vanity and greed. The two things defining him. 

His mask slips into place and he straightens his back. A con man doesn't have friends or allies, only people he works with. It feels good to distance himself from his real personality. 

Illya seems to sense the change because he stops in the middle of the road. "Are you alright?" he wants to know.

"Of course I am. I've never been better. My trainee is doing well and I’m about to be appointed as employee of the year," Napoleon replies, arrogance lacing his words.

His colleague frowns. "You don't know that." 

"I believe I do." He knows Illya hates the face he makes. "Waverly could have started the whole thing without me, but he sent you to get me, which is telling enough, don't you think?"

They fall silent after that. Soon afterwards, they arrive at the inn and Napoleon opens the door, holding it open for Illya to step in. After a few moments of silent staring, he watches the expectation in Illya's eyes vanish. Napoleon feels nauseous, not doing that silly little half bow that makes Illya smile might have been a mistake. 

"Ah, gents. Welcome, welcome," Waverly greets them, before turning to their fellow agents, "Now, that everyone is back together, I'd like to make a special announcement." He turns in Napoleon's direction. "Solo, would you mind?"

"Of course not, Sir." 

In the end, he is right. Waverly praises his skills, his never-ending patience with Soraya, his ability to adapt and Napoleon feels his heart swell with pride. His colleagues cheer and clap, the ones near him shaking his hand and patting him on the back. 

"Good job, boss," Soraya shouts and hugs him.

"You did well too," he tells her, smiling. 

She nods. "I learned from the best after all." 

They exchange a few one-liners about them being UNCLE's best, then, Gaby is there. "Not hugging me?" she wants to know. 

"No." He pulls her into his arms nevertheless, holding back his tears again. 

"Congratulations, Spatz." She kisses his cheek, turning to Illya who has appeared at her side. "There you are." Her smile is blinding, so is Illya's, and Napoleon feels like getting punched into the stomach.

"Yes", Illya tells her and clasps her shoulder. 

"Congratulations, Cowboy, I am happy for you. You deserve it." _And I am happy for you two_ , he wants to say, but instead, he blurts out: "No need to congratulate me, I was always good at lying." 

Gaby closes her mouth, tilting her head in a way that he finds especially endearing and, judging by Illya's fond gaze, he is not the only one. "That's not what this is ab-"

Quickly, he turns to his trainee. "Soraya, would you tell Waverly that all of your drinks are on me?"

"Yeah, sure. I'm never going to miss the opportunity to save money." She takes her cue to leave, casting him one last supporting look before mingling with the crowd.

"What the hell is your problem?" Gaby demands to know. 

"Pardon?" He blinks and displays smile number 7, his personal favourite, the arrogant one, bordering on heartlessness. 

"I can see right through your whole masquerade, you're being defensive!" Gaby explains, stepping forward. 

"Chop Shop Girl," Illya warns, grabbing her hand, making everything worse. 

"Shut up!" She pulls her hand out of his grip. "This is not about you, but him."

Napoleon flinches. _Him._ He is not even worth getting called by his name. "What's bothering you, Teller? My lack of closeness?"

"No, I just want to know why you're being such a fucking asshole." – "I always was, Teller. If you'll excuse me now, I'm going to head home." He pushes past them, nods at Soraya, who waves. 

As soon as he is outside, he takes the shortcut to his apartment building and tries to ignore the mistletoes dangling over his head. There is not a single soul outside at this late hour and he welcomes the peace. Finally, he can let his thoughts wander.

Napoleon knows that he is missing the office wide inside joke: appointing the year's loveliest secret couple. Last year it had been Diana and Lois, outing them effectively. He remembers the whole inn whooping, shouting their congratulations, being happy for them. He also remembers Illya putting an arm around him, smiling brightly. And he remembers thinking: _Oh no. Oh please no._

Falling in love with him was too easy. Falling out of love is impossible. He sobs. 

"Cowboy?" Someone is running up to him.

He would have recognised him anywhere. His partner, his friend, his- No, not his, never his. 

Violent shivers are shaking his body and he cannot do a thing against it. All of his pent-up emotions break loose. If it wouldn't have been for Illya to wrap his arms around him, he would have crumbled to the ground like a house of cards. 

Napoleon buries his head in Illya's chest and lets go. He is not strong enough. Illya hums, stroking his back. 

"What is wrong?" he asks again, after Napoleon has calmed down a little. 

"Loneliness," he answers, again hoping, that Illya will catch his fall. 

He doesn't. "You will find someone," he says.

"Just like you found Gaby?" Napoleon notices that they are standing under a mistletoe.

"Gaby and I are not in a relationship." Illya bites his lip. "I have someone else I like."

Of course. "Then I wish you the best. They can count themselves lucky." Napoleon steps back, out of Illya's arms. "I am going to head home now. I don't want to catch a cold."

"Yes." Illya nods. "I don't want you to get sick either." 

The mistletoe is still there, more prominent than before. He looks up, so does Illya. "I will see you in the office. I cannot wait to know who they appointed to be the secret couple of the year." And after a little bit of hesitation, he adds: "And I cannot wait to have my partner back." 

Napoleon nods and waves him goodbye. "He is dead," he whispers.

By now, he should have been used to the rejection, but this hurts more than anything else before and he knows it will not go away. He sinks to his knees, once he is sure Illya has not followed him, burying his face in his hands. 

Napoleon does not know how much time passes like this: being in the cold, looking up from time to time, watching the snowflakes on his hands melt away. He thinks of warm touches, bright smiles, fond kisses. Things, he is sure of never having. 

"Are you mad?!" someone rattles him out of his thoughts. 

He hears the pulling of a zipper and is covered in warmth immediately. "You are going to freeze to death," Illya chastises him, pulling Napoleon into him, rubbing his back. 

"W-why did you come back?" Napoleon forces out, teeth rattling.

"Because something dawned on me," Illya replies, "They announced the loveliest secret couple." 

"And?" He snuggles closer. 

It is a little bit pathetic, really, but the cold gives him an excuse to cuddle with Illya, so he lets out a small whimper. As expected, it does not leave his partner unfazed. The hold on him tightens. 

"They appointed us," Illya whispers. 

If it was not for the silence the snow around them lays on the scenery, he would have missed it. "Us?" Napoleon looks up. 

"Yes." Illya helps him stand, putting his arms around him afterwards. "It made me think," he confesses, expression honest, "About how I missed your presence. Or how unhappy you looked when I told you that I like someone else. And then it hit me." 

"What hit you?" Napoleon is still shivering, but he has more important things to focus on. 

"That you are in love too."

"Too?" Napoleon breathes. 

"Silly Cowboy." Illya shakes his head. "How could I not?" 

Relief washes through him, silencing his self-doubts for the moment. "Too," he says again, because he still cannot believe it. 

"Yes." Illya wants to say something else, but Napoleon interrupts him: "Oh look, there's a mistletoe." 

It is all the warning his partner gets, before he kisses him, because he cannot think of any reason not to. Illya melts into him and does not know what to do with his hands, as if overwhelmed by being able to touch him. He places them on the small of his back, lets them roam up- and downwards. Then he cups his face, stroking his cheekbones with his thumbs and sobs into the kiss. 

They break apart, catching their breath, Illya with a suspicious glint in his eyes. Snowflakes are catching in his lashes. Irritated, he wipes them away and Napoleon wants to stop him because he has never looked more beautiful. 

Illya smiles and he does not want to say goodbye, but he has to. He is too cold to stay outside any longer. With a lot of hesitation, he tells his partner, who only takes his hand and walks him home. They climb the stairs to his apartment in silence. Once he has unlocked the door, Illya makes him turn around. 

"This is better than kissing in the cold," he whispers, leaning into his personal space. 

His smile is soft and Napoleon wants to feel it against his lips. So he does, drawing him downwards, moaning softly when their tongues meet. Afterwards, they separate to get in, Napoleon doing his silly half-bow. Illya's features melt into an expression full of love and affection. Napoleon wonders how he missed it all those times prior. 

With the last bit of self-control he can muster, he closes the door. Stepping right into Illya's personal space, warmth making his body tingle all over, he seals their lips. Illya sighs, wraps his arms tightly around him, nearly lifting him up, Napoleon holding onto him. 

"Always ready to sweep me off my feet," he says and does not expect Illya to start laughing, adorable snorts escaping him. 

He flushes bright red. "That was terrible," Illya forces out, trying to distract him. 

"That I am," he states. 

"Yes you are, my terrible," Illya says and Napoleon has to contain his eye roll because it is the cheesiest thing he has ever heard. 

He starts shivering again, snuggling closer to Illya's warmth. "Let's get you into the shower," his partner suggests and pecks him on the lips. 

"The best idea you had this evening, after kissing me," Napoleon sighs. 

"I always have the best ideas," Illya quips, "Like collecting silly Cowboys from street." 

Slowly, he starts peeling Napoleon out of his jacket and his own coat, rubbing his chest, kissing him again, their tongues tangling. They toe out of their shoes, tumbling into his living room, Napoleon trying to pull Illya into the direction of his bathroom. 

His tie slips loose, falling on the floor. For once, he doesn't care and lets Illya help him out of his suit jacket. Thanks to the efficient Russian, they hit the shower faster than anticipated. 

The first few minutes are torture, his fingers and especially his toes stinging, but once Illya starts soaping him, messaging tight spots, kissing old scars, he forgets all about the pain. Illya strokes down his arms, their fingers weaving together for a few precious seconds. Their lips meet again in what has to be the sweetest kiss of his life. 

Then, Illya shifts position, pressing himself firmer against Napoleon and he can feel his interest against his thigh. His grin turns impish while he starts to tease Peril, who gasps surprised. 

"Let's dry off, shall we?" Napoleon suggests. 

Illya doesn't protest and takes the towel he offers. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, suddenly unsure of himself. 

Napoleon lifts his brows. Sometimes he forgets about Illya’s insecurities. "There is nothing to apologise for," he says, tries to sound earnest, because nothing is more important to him right now, "I enjoy your company very much." 

Illya nods, looks up afterwards. "Thank you." 

Napoleon lets the sentence hang in the air between them and helps him to dry off as well. He finds a few ticklish spots, alongside some very fascinating scars and starts teasing Illya again until he is a squirming mess. 

"Now," Napoleon starts, drawing him closer, "I do believe I should show you my flat."

Illya wants to protest, but he kisses him silent, before continuing: "I suggest we start with the bedroom."

Something, a spark, a bonfire, he does not know, it is too intense to describe, lights up in Illya's eyes. "Lead the way," he says, voice dry. 

"You know what? I have something better in mind." He hears a surprised squeak and nearly drops Illya to the floor. 

Carrying the Russian and laughing at the same time might not have been his best idea. Illya hugs him tight, hiding his laughter – and his snorts – in Napoleon's neck. 

Not shortly after their near-accident, he lets Illya down. Then, he hesitates for a moment, because it still feels like a dream, a fantasy. Looking a little bit too annoyed and too impatient, Illya pulls him down. 

They sleep together for the first time this evening, but instead of becoming a desperate tangle of limbs, like Napoleon has always imagined their first time to be, it is slow and sweet, Illya's gaze not leaving his face. The atmosphere is so soft he never wants it to end. 

They lay in silence afterwards, Napoleon listening to Illya's steady heartbeat, their legs tangling, Illya drawing senseless patterns on his skin. Here, in his arms, Napoleon feels protected, cared for, loved. He has never been happier. 

Although it does not take long for him to get uncomfortable, because he feels sticky. He suggests a second shower, Illya complaining through the whole ordeal of getting up about his capitalistic ways, only stopping once Napoleon seals their lips, practically shoving him under the warm spray of water. It is the second time this evening he hears Illya's squeak and he thinks, laughing, stepping into the shower after him, that he looks forward to surprise him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I feel like UNCLE would celebrate Christmas for the sake of getting together with their colleagues, friends and loved ones once a year. That's probably why Napoleon felt this miserable. And yes, I know, it's the 60s and people shouldn't be this accepting of same sex relationships, but UNCLE is a progressive organisation in my head, so there's that. 
> 
> _Spatz_ is the German word for sparrow, but it's also used as a term of endearment, similar to darling or sweetie. 
> 
> If you have any questions or want to chat, you can contact me on my [Tumblr](http://napoleonsolos.tumblr.com/). I'm always happy to meet new people. 
> 
> Oh, and before I forget: Kudos and comments are always appreciated :D
> 
> That's about it. Have a good one!


End file.
